


Stay Still

by ohgodmyeyes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anakin Skywalker is Fucking Crazy, Anakin Skywalker is Not Nice, Arguing, Cellphones, Cheating, Choking, Domestic Violence, Don't Read This, F/M, Horror, Jealously, Large Cock, Mental Health Issues, Middle-Aged Anakin Skywalker, Misunderstandings, Name-Calling, Photos, Rape, Reader-Insert, Regret, Self-Harm, Swearing, Threats, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, Victim Blaming, firearms, pushing, spitting, ventfic, violent rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26499787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: Nasty, old Anakin grabs your phone, looks through your photos, and gets violently jealous over nothing. He takes it out on you with his cock, and then goes on to feel terrible about having done so.He is desperate to be forgiven, but you're quite sure you're finished with him.Just how crazy is this guy?
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Reader
Comments: 76
Kudos: 77
Collections: Darkfics for a Stormy Day





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Rape warning.** Not fun rape or sexy pretend rape, just plain old, shouldn't-happen-but-it-does, everyday rape.
> 
> I didn't like this story at first; it was only supposed to be a one-shot. I've done what I want to do with it now, though, and seeing it whole makes me appreciate it a bit more. I wouldn't have figured it out without support, so thanks for that.
> 
> Enjoy with discretion.

You'd only been out of the room for a moment, and were sure you'd put your phone down on the table before leaving. You looked all over the surface; around the ashtray, the loose cigarette butts, the half-spent BIC lighters, and all of of the empty mini-bottles of various kinds of liquor... but it was nowhere to be found.

"Where's my phone?" you asked Anakin, kneeling on the stone floor of the garage to peer between the milk-crates holding up the plywood tabletop. 

"I don't know," he said. If you'd bothered to look at him on your way back into the space, you'd have noticed him holding it in his hand, scrolling through your photos with his thumb. 

"Well, it didn't lose itself," you said, as you felt around amongst the dust and ash.

"No," he admitted. "I guess it didn't." Then, "Who the fuck are these pictures for, anyway?"

"What?" you almost bashed your head on the underside of the plywood as you pulled yourself up off the floor. Peering over at him, "What are you talking abo— _what the fuck are you doing?_ Give that back!"

He was already standing up; as you marched over to him, he preemptively held your device high up and well out of your reach. "Not until you tell me who the fucking pictures are for."

"Nobody! Myself! Fuck, Anakin, give me my phone!" What did it matter to him who your tit pics were for? He was fucking _married,_ and more than twice your age on top of that.

With a flick of his wrist, he chucked it across the room as you began to try to pull his arm down. He didn't have his shirt on, or his fake limb for that matter. That was a good thing for him, because you'd have ripped it right off of his body and held it hostage if he'd been wearing it. Your phone landed on the ratty old sofa against the back wall. Thankfully, it didn't bounce off of one of the cushions and break. 

You tried to walk over to pick it up, but Anakin grabbed onto your arm before you could start. "Tell me the goddamn truth," he demanded, glaring at you as you looked back up at him. 

"What do you care, you creepy old freak?" You tried to wrench yourself away, but he only tightened his grip.

"It doesn't matter why I care. I asked you a fucking question."

You came under the distinct impression that no matter what you told him, it wasn't going to satisfy him. "I like to take pictures, okay?" you tried. "Now fucking let me go."

"No," he said decidedly. "Not until you tell me for real."

The pictures weren't _for_ anyone; you just liked to have them— and if you'd been planning on sharing them with anybody, it definitely wasn't any of his business. You continued to struggle uselessly against his grasp as you near-shouted, "There's nothing to tell you! What the fuck is wrong with you today?" 

His wife and kids were gone from the house; they'd be gone all night, apparently. He'd invited you over to drink and fuck, but you hadn't gotten around to any of that yet. The empty bottles on the table had been there since you'd arrived, but Anakin didn't exactly seem drunk— just a little extra weird. You'd wondered what was bugging him at first, but now you didn't care. He had always been a complete whackjob, but he'd never pulled this kind of shit on you before. You just wanted him to let go of you.

"Nothing that isn't always wrong with me," he sneered, and then he paused before venturing through a thin veneer of calm, "Take your fucking clothes off."

 _"What?_ I really don't think I'm up for that tonight; not if you're going to be—"

 _"Take your fucking clothes off!"_ he repeated, casting off the last vestiges of his calm facade, and drawing you in more closely. That single arm he had was unbelievably strong, and every time you tried to pull away from him, he only squeezed you harder. You started to feel frightened... and Anakin had never actually _scared_ you before.

"I don't want to," you said, trying as hard as you could to sound nonchalant. "Now _please_ let me go."

"Why the hell did you come here, if you didn't want to get undressed for me? Fucking do it, or I'll do it for you."

You laughed, not quite knowing what a mistake it would turn out to be. "You've only got one arm to work with, and you're batshit fucking crazy. What are you going to do to me?"

 _"Whatever the fuck I want!"_ At that, he shoved you harder than anyone had ever shoved you before. You fell to the floor because you didn't have a choice (it was only by the grace of chance that you didn't hit your head on the concrete), and before you could even begin to get up, he'd placed a knee on either side of your waist. That single, brutal hand of his wound up wrapped around your neck. He wasn't applying any pressure with it, but you knew that could change at any moment. "Pull up your goddamn skirt," he ordered, knowing you hadn't worn anything underneath it.

"Anakin, I don't want to—"

_"Pull up the fucking skirt!"_

There it was— he started to squeeze, then, and you knew you ought to start listening to him, whether you wanted to or not. You weren't wet for him; not now. If he fucked you this way, it was going to hurt like hell. Usually you loved the sheer size of his cock, but right now you wanted nothing to do with it.

"Fuck! Okay!" You shifted so that you could get your hands down to your sides despite his knees, and start pulling up the mini-skirt you'd worn to come and see him. You liked to be playful with him; that was why you'd opted not to wear panties. Right now you truly didn't want to play, but that didn't seem to matter to Anakin. His face was twisted into an awful scowl; you'd seen him pissed off before, but he'd never once looked at you like this. You'd have loved to know just where the hell this was coming from.

"That's better," he said. "You're a stupid fucking slut— did you know that? _Stupid fucking slut._ " He took his hand away from your throat, pinched you sharply between his legs so that you couldn't get up, and wrenched open his own pants. He pulled out his cock; it was as hard as you'd ever seen it, and dripping eagerly— apparently at the thought of forcing its way into you in spite of your lack of willingness to accept it.

"I do know," you answered, very suddenly hating yourself for ever getting involved with this sick old fuck in the first place. There were tears coming to your eyes, which made you feel like even more of an idiot, but you couldn't seem to hold them back. You thought about trying to wriggle out from underneath him to run away, but what then? You didn't know how crazy he was; whether he would chase you, or throw something at you, or even try to kill you. Anyway, you knew that if you ran and he caught you, it would only make everything worse.

He assumed the position after that; trapped you beneath his body as he used that fucking arm to suspend himself. He moved his hips haphazardly as he poked around between your legs with his monstrously huge dick. Usually you'd have used one of your own hands to help guide him in, but not tonight. Your arms were free now, but pushing on his chest didn't seem to accomplish anything; he was too strong. You used the hand closest to his arm to hit the inside of his elbow in an attempt to throw him off-balance, but that didn't work either.

All it seemed to do, in fact, was piss him off enough to make him spit in your face.

"Stay still! _Fuck!_ How fucking dumb are you?!" he shouted, having coated your nose in his saliva. It must have been instinct which caused you to press your thighs together at that point, but it only made him lean in closely to snarl at you, "All you're doing is giving my fucking boner a good rub-down— if you liked being choked, I wish you would have told me. _Now do I have to fucking knock you out for this, or are you going to start being good?"_

You squeezed your eyes shut and turned your head away from his face... but you also pried your own legs apart from one another as best you could, and willed yourself to stop moving. You'd walked in to him lifting weights and performing one-armed push-ups enough times to know that he wasn't overestimating his own strength. You usually admired his physical aptitude; had stared hungrily at him more than once as he'd finished his sit-ups, or marvelled at the sheer amount of weight he could hoist up with only one hand. He'd always get annoyed when you brought it up, though; would say that it was simply the least dangerous way for him to take out his negative energy. 

Now, you understood what he had meant... and the condition of his body had come to frighten you, instead of turn you on. 

"That's better," he said, and now that his target was no longer a moving one, he seemed to have little trouble maneuvering himself into your cunt hands-free. No doubt he was aided by the size of his cock— again, just another thing about him you'd liked up until a few minutes ago. 

_"Shit!"_ you yelped, wishing it were more likely that someone had heard you. It was almost funny: You'd never wanted to be heard in here before. Taking Anakin's hard-on stung at the best of times; right now, the pain was excruciating— all there was to lubricate you was what he'd been leaking out himself, and your own muscles were tightly clenched. You couldn't have helped that; in fact, you tried... but relaxing was not a possibility right now.

And so instead, you cried and sputtered as he forced his way in mercilessly and began to thrust. You could feel his breath on your neck, and hear his belt buckle hitting the floor. When you kept your head turned and your eyes closed, he growled into your ear, _"Look at me!"_

 _"Why?"_ you sobbed. "Isn't— _fuck!_ — isn't this enough?!"

"No," he breathed. "It isn't." He stopped for a moment; however, he kept himself buried deep inside of you. As you slowly opened your eyes and turned your head back up so that you could meet his gaze, he asked quietly, "What do I mean to you?"

What the fuck kind of question was that to ask right now? 

"I don't fucking know anymore," you answered unsteadily, trying not to clench yourself around his cock. You failed in that endeavour; felt him throb in response to your muscles' contracting. 

"You should... have told me... the _truth!_ " he shouted in your face, as he resumed fucking you against your will. You _had_ told him the truth; your pictures weren't for anyone but you, whether he believed it or not. When you didn't say anything, he whispered breathlessly into your ear, _"I thought we were only fucking each other."_

That only made you start to cry all over again. Maybe you should have raised your hand once more; maybe you should have tried to hit him in the head, but you couldn't summon either the physical or emotional strength to do so. You did look up at him, because you were afraid of what he'd do if you didn't, and found that you only barely recognized him. You'd always thought he was pretty; even when he was drunk or tired or pissed off, you enjoyed looking at him... but he wasn't nice to look at right now, not remotely. 

He stared back down at you; kept his cold, blue eyes trained on your face the entire time. You had always known he was fucked up, but you'd never have guessed him the sort of man who could or would do something like this. You couldn't tell whether or not you were bleeding, but it definitely felt like you were; you thought about bruises on your hips, and about your cunt being rubbed raw. The pain extended from the outside of your body, and all the way up into your lower abdomen— you'd never experienced anything like it, and you hoped you never would again. 

Just as you began to think you couldn't possibly take any more of Anakin's abuse, you felt it: He let go; shot his load off into you like a gun, holding himself tightly in position while he drained into you. You'd always been grateful for birth control, but that feeling was amplified more than ever right at this moment.

He wrenched his softened, spent dick out of you when he was finished; sat up high on his knees. He was breathing heavily, and still looking down on you. You wanted to get up, but felt as though you were frozen. You watched his scar-laden chest heave, and that messy, honey-coloured hair you used to like to tug stick to his forehead. It was damp from the sweat that had beaded up on his skin while he'd fucked you. 

His lip started to tremble; you thought at first that it was because he was still angry, but it wasn't long before you noticed tears beginning to gather in his eyes, too. "I thought we were only fucking each other," he repeated, perhaps even more quietly than when he'd whispered it to you. 

_"We were,"_ you told him, finally wiping from your face the spit that hadn't yet dried. Although you were still both tearful and in pain, you managed to unstick yourself from the floor; scramble out from between his knees, and make your way over to the sofa, where you finally took your phone back into your own possession.

Heaving himself up onto his feet, he followed you. While he did, he tucked his cock back into his pants with his hand, and pulled roughly at the zipper until they were most of the way fastened again. He left his belt hanging open; looking at its buckle only caused you to remember the clinking sound it had made as it had hit the floor during his outburst. 

"What are you doing?" he asked, in a voice that betrayed absolutely no emotion whatsoever. 

"I don't know," you answered, clutching your phone tightly in one hand while you used the other to tug the hem of your skirt as far down your legs as it would go. 

"I shouldn't have done that," he said next; again, without a trace or hint of feeling in his voice. 

"No," you told him, finally summoning the strength to narrow your eyes and glare at him. "You shouldn't have."

There was that little tremor again; the one in his lip that made it look like he was about to cry. What the fuck did _he_ have to cry about? 

"I thought you wanted me," he said.

Your glare turned into a confused, helpless stare as you replied as though it should have been obvious, _"I did want you, Anakin."_ With a shake of your head, "Why the hell would I ever have snuck into your garage and fucked you behind your wife's back if I didn't want you?" That was crude, but it was true. You'd wanted him more than almost anything until he'd done what he did to you today. Now you didn't know what the fuck you wanted. 

Confronted by your logic, he averted his gaze; looked instead toward the floor. He clenched and unclenched his hand. "Your photos..." he started, before trailing off.

"My photos are nothing," you spat at him. "Can I fucking leave now, or are you going to throw something at the back of my head on my way out?" You were still frightened, but not the way you'd been before. Your fear was mingling with fresh anger, now; a brand-new, indomitably strong sense of having been violated. Your cunt felt like it was on fire; all you wanted to do was go home. 

"I— well—"

"Answer me, you sick old fuck! _Can I fucking leave now?"_

"You can," he conceded, in a smaller voice than you'd have expected, "but I don't want—"

"I don't care what you want," you said, standing up from the sofa. As you picked your bag up from the floor and tossed your phone inside it in preparation to leave, you added, "Don't you think you've had enough of what you 'want'?" 

"Well, I didn't— I mean, I just—" 

"Fuck off, Anakin," you sighed, and you made your way toward the door. It wasn't far from the couch, and it led straight out to the side of the house. You'd walked here, and you'd walk home, too. The pain didn't matter; part of you felt like nothing mattered. 

You only looked back once on your way out, and when you did, you saw him standing stalk-still, staring at his own hand. You didn't know what he was contemplating, and right then, you really didn't care.

He texted you once you were finally out of his sight, but you didn't check your phone until you were in your room at home, by yourself.

When you did, you found several messages, and every single one of them said the exact same thing:

_I'm sorry._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's clearly going off the deep-end in this one. 
> 
> Thank you so much if you've helped me figure this thing out. It's still a ventfic, but I'm having a much better time with it now that it's an actual story instead of just a depiction of a single, awful event.

If the worst part about walking home after Anakin's having raped you was the fact that you had to feel him drip down your leg the entire time, then the worst part about waking up the morning after had to be what he'd wound up doing to your bike.

 _I'm sorry,_ his texts had said. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ You didn't really care if he was sorry, and so you'd simply ignored them until they had finally stopped. It must have been sometime after you'd fallen asleep that he'd decided to come by your house.

"Fucking hell," you said to yourself as you stood outside your first-floor bedroom window, which was where you usually kept your bicycle locked up to the gas meter. You couldn't tell whether you felt angry, or just defeated. Anakin must have decided awfully soon after you left that he was going to go ahead and be fucking creepy. "Why the fuck...? _Jesus Christ."_

There were cigarette butts all around it; they were scattered across the ground, and stubbed out on the windowsill, too. Inexplicably, he'd left you flowers as well; however, they were mostly dead, and the bouquet of which they'd once been a part was shoved roughly through the spokes of your front wheel. Perhaps most disconcertingly, there was what looked to have been a bite taken out of the gel-infused foam comprising the seat— you didn't even want to know what the fuck he had meant by that. 

Whatever it was, at least he'd left your tires alone.

"Goddamnit, Anakin," you muttered, and you began picking up his butts. You'd only just graduated high school, and you still lived with your parents— if you didn't clean up the mess, you were sure they would be pissed off when they got home from work. Besides that, you had absolutely no intention of revealing to them what had happened to you, or what had been going on leading up to it. That would have been asking for trouble; trouble was something you definitely didn't need any more of.

Once you'd gathered the spent cigarettes into a pile, you pulled the flowers out from between your spokes; inspected the 'bouquet' as you turned it over in your hand. They were daffodils, or at least they had been at one point. Where had he gotten a bouquet of fucking daffodils in the middle of the night? As you tossed them atop of the pile of cigarette butts you'd already gathered, you decided you didn't care about that any more than you cared about his numerous apologies. It didn't matter where the damn flowers had come from— all you knew was that you didn't appreciate them, or the way he'd presented them to you. 

As you fingered the chunk he seemed to have ripped out of your seat with his teeth, you felt a buzz; it was your phone. Someone was calling you, and you didn't have to take out the device to know exactly who it was. Against your better judgement, you pulled it from your pocket anyway, and accepted the call. 

"Anakin," you started, "I—"

 _"Please,"_ he begged, right off the bat. 

Looking around yourself to make sure no one was within earshot, you hissed into the receiver, _"How long were you standing outside my fucking window last night?"_

"Not long," he said, and part of you was surprised at just how quickly he admitted to what he'd done. He sounded like he'd been crying, but again, you didn't care how sad or regretful he happened to be, because he had fucking raped you— and he'd done it over literally nothing.

"You must have smoked two goddamn packs of cigarettes out here," you told him, figuring it must have taken him some time to produce so many butts.

"You know how I smoke," was all he said to that, and you guessed he had a point. "Will you please just talk to me? I never meant to—"

"I don't care what you 'meant' to do. Anyway, you're fifty and you're fucking married. I should never have—"

"Fuck!" he said, suddenly sounding as though he were getting angry again. He had no right to be angry, you thought. "You know my wife fucking hates me!"

"Well, maybe now I finally understand why that is," you told him, and you pulled the phone from your ear; swiped his call away. Fuck him— he didn't deserve another second of your time.

Shoving your phone back into your pocket, you looked over Anakin's half-tidied mess; decided that you'd had enough of him and his flowers and his stupid cigarette butts for now. Your parents would be at work all day, and you knew you could come back out to finish cleaning all of this up later. You'd need a broom, anyway, and all of the brooms happened to be inside the house. 

You shook your head, and walked back around to the front door; stepped inside. You were still sore from Anakin's attack, and all you wanted to do was sit down and watch TV for a bit; maybe scroll through your phone, or make some coffee. You felt simultaneously fed-up and on-edge— you desperately needed to relax, and so that's what you were going to try to do.

Once you'd turned on the coffee maker and grabbed a charger for your phone, you headed to the living room to sit down on the couch and turn on the television. There wasn't much on mid-morning, and you didn't feel like streaming a movie, so you flipped through the channels lazily looking for something to watch. After a few minutes, though, you realized you hadn't plugged into the wall the charger you'd taken for your phone... so, you set down the remote and leaned over the arm of the couch to do just that. 

"Oh come on," you muttered to yourself, because there was an end-table half-blocking the outlet, making it hard to reach. It had always been that way, but it still annoyed you every time.

"You want me to move that for you?" asked Anakin from behind you, and the blood in your veins might as well have turned to ice.

As your stomach proceeded to twist itself into a knot, you dropped the charger and turned back around. "What the fuck!" you exclaimed. "Anakin, get the fuck out of my house!"

"I figured you wouldn't come back to mine if I asked you to," he said, sitting down on the sofa beside you as though he'd been invited to do so. It was painfully obvious that he'd neither slept nor showered since you'd last seen him, and his hair was a disaster. He'd never actually looked his age to you before, but right now he did— and if his eyes were any indication, you were right; he had, in fact, been crying. 

You backed away from him in your own seat; grabbed your phone and held it tightly in your hand. "You figured right— _I don't want anything to do with you_. Now get the fuck out of here, or I'm going to call the fucking police." Just as when you'd argued with him in his garage, you tried your hardest to sound calm, even though 'calm' was not at all how you felt. 

"I was afraid you'd say that," he told you, and it was only then that you registered the fact that he was wearing a jacket. He reached inside of it with his hand, and from a pocket somewhere on the inside, he produced a gun: It was a small, black pistol. You hadn't ever seen it before; hadn't even known that he owned it. "Put down your phone so we can talk." 

"Anakin—"

 _"Please!"_ He sounded just like he had when he'd called you. It occurred to you, then, that he had to have been phoning you from somewhere inside your own house. He'd been there all night; ever since he'd taken that bite out of your bicycle seat. 

"Where were you hiding?" you asked, because all of a sudden it seemed relevant. 

"The basement," he answered. Then, as if to excuse himself, "The window was unlocked— open, actually. I just thought—"

"Thought _what?_ " you demanded, perhaps more boldly than you ought to have. "Thought you could come in here and fucking rape me again?"

"No! I told you, I never meant to—"

 _"Well you did,"_ you interrupted, "and now you're in my living room waving a gun at me. What if I told you my parents were coming home soon?"

"They're not, though," he said simply, already knowing he was correct. "And I'm not _waving_ it at you; I just brought it because I knew you wouldn't give me a chance to talk to you unless I did." He was right about that, too, but you wondered if he understood the deep fault running through his logic. You'd always known he was a little 'off', but you never could have guessed that he would come quite as unhinged as he seemed to be right now.

Then again, you also never figured he would rape you. 

"You've got to get out of here, Anakin," you tried once again. "If you ever cared about me even a little bit, you'll put that thing back in your coat, and—"

"No!" he shouted. _"No—_ I didn't come all the way here and sit in your fucking basement all night just to get up and leave! You're going to talk to me." As if it made what he was doing any less ridiculous or horrific, he added once again, _"Please."_

You were afraid to even look at your phone; had no idea how trigger-happy he might be. "What do you think there is to talk about?" you asked, not wanting to concede that you were conceding at all. You didn't seem to have a choice in the matter right now, though, because he wasn't giving you one... which you supposed was exactly what he'd intended.

"I want you to answer my question from yesterday," he said, and he rested the gun on his lap. At least it wasn't pointed at you. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" You really didn't know.

 _"What do I mean to you?"_ he implored desperately, all of a sudden seeming, once again, to be much younger than his actual age. It had nothing to do with his appearance, though— he certainly still _looked_ old to you. Old, and tired. 

"Why the fuck do you care?" you asked. "And do you mean now, or before yesterday? Because—"

"I mean now!" he yelled, apparently frustrated by your continued lack of willingness to co-operate. After gathering himself, he added, "I care because you were all I had, and I know I fucked it up." With a desperate-sounding sigh, "I just want things to go back to the way they were before. I'm not asking you to run away with me or some dumb shit like that. _I just want your company again."_

"My 'company'?" You almost felt sad for him, but you looked at his gun, and remembered why you shouldn't.

"Yes! Yes, your fucking company," he answered defensively. _"I like you—_ I like spending time with you. Do you know how close I was to using this goddamn thing on myself before you started coming over?" he asked, holding up the pistol.

That felt like a lot to take in, because you'd never received the impression that he was suicidal; just that he didn't give a shit about anything. Although, in retrospect, that fact itself ought to have been a hint. "...I don't think I can get past what happened yesterday," you told him carefully. "I think I need some time to—"

 _"Fuck!"_ he shouted again, and his face twisted itself into a scowl. If he 'liked' you, he sure had a funny way of showing it. "Fucking hell! If you're going to fucking be like this, I guess I'm going to have to work a bit harder to convince you." Be like _what?_ you wondered. You thought it was perfectly reasonable that you wouldn't want to spend time with a crazy, horny, angry old man and his gun. He stood up from his seat, then, and pointed the weapon straight at your face. "Get up," he ordered. "Get up, and go down to the basement."

He must really have been fucking nuts if he thought he was going to hold you hostage in your own house. "Anakin—"

 _"Get the fuck up and go down to the goddamn motherfucking basement!"_ He did wave the pistol at you now, but you weren't about to bring that up to him. 

You stood unsteadily, and began to turn toward the door to the stairs that led down to the basement. It wasn't even a nice basement; it was unfinished, and the floor was made of cement. All your parents kept there were old tools and patio furniture. What the hell did he want you to go to the basement with him for? You thought it was most likely better not to ask, so you remained quiet.

"Leave your phone," he added, knowing you still had it in your hand. 

"If my mom calls and I don't answer she'll—"

_"Leave the phone!"_

"Okay," you capitulated, and with a newly-trembling hand, you set it back down on the sofa. You supposed the fact that he had a weapon meant that he was the one making the rules, at least for now. You hoped silently that your dad had forgotten his lunch or his keys or something else he needed at work; hoped he would walk in as Anakin was leading you down to the basement, and hit him in the back of the head. 

He wouldn't, of course; your dad never forgot anything... but still, you hoped.

You were suddenly absolutely terrified of the possibility that hope might be all you had.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the archive warnings appropriately.

"Sit here."

"I don't want to sit in a fucking lawn chair next to the boiler, Anakin."

"If you don't care about what I want, then I don't care about what you want, either— _sit the fuck down!"_

You sat the fuck down. The chair had already been set up when you came to the bottom of the stairs; you guessed he must have been sitting in it while he'd been waiting for your parents to leave that morning. That thought made you suppress a shudder.

Once you were seated, Anakin used his fake hand to very carefully reach into the side-pocket of his coat, and pluck a set of handcuffs out of it. He extended his arm out toward you, letting the cuffs hang loosely from his mechanical fingers. He was still pointing his gun at you; it hadn't left his good hand since he'd first taken it out. You wanted to rip his fucking prosthesis right off of him and beat him with it, but you knew that was almost certain to get you shot, so you restrained yourself— for now, anyway.

"Take these," he told you, stone-faced. 

"What for?" you asked, which you only realized after the fact was likely unwise.

"You're going to attach yourself to the boiler. I'd do it myself, but..." He trailed off; used those fingers of his to jingle the metal loops.

"I get it," you said, and with enormous reluctance, you took the cuffs from him; attached one end to your wrist, and the other to one of the solid, metal pipes connecting your family's boiler to the wall. Looking at it made you think about taking a hot shower. 

He grinned lopsidedly as he watched you follow his order. "Did I ever tell you what happened to my arm?" he asked, out of what seemed like nowhere.

"No, I don't think you did." You'd never inquired about it, because it had never seemed relevant. His missing arm had never bothered you; if anything, both the leftover stump and the false limb with which he'd replaced it were kind of neat. Right now, though, you wished it had turned you off— if you hadn't been attracted to him in the first place, you'd never have wound up in this situation. 

"I cut it off," he informed you.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" 

He laughed. "Everyone thought it was an accident. Even my wife still thinks it was an accident. She felt sorry for me when it happened, you know— if she hadn't, I don't think she'd have married me."

"Are you telling me you cut your own fucking arm off on purpose?" If that was, indeed, what he was saying, then it not only meant that he was crazier than you ever could have imagined; it also meant he'd been that way for a hell of a long time. No wonder his wife didn't want to fuck him. You never should have fucked him, either.

"I used to work with granite. Crappy job; I hated it. I would cut big chunks of it from the quarry into tombstones and angels and shit like that for the cemetery. You ever drive by the cemetery?"

You nodded. You had, in fact, driven by the cemetery. It was huge; sprawling, and the graves themselves dated back over a hundred years. There were generations of families buried there.

"A bunch of those stones are mine," he said. "They were a bitch to carve— but we had a great tool to do it with. Have you ever seen a diamond blade?"

"No," you told him, "I haven't." You shifted your eyes; tried to look around the room without him registering that you were doing so. Your parents' tools were all well out of reach; the only thing within an arm's breadth of you was the boiler itself. 

"It's basically a table saw," he said, ignoring your desperation. "Big and round, but instead of steel, the sharp edge is made out of diamond. It's the only thing that can cut through the granite well enough to shape it properly." You were fairly sure you knew where the story was going by now; wondered why the fuck he was telling it to you. He continued anyway, "One day at work, I put my arm in front of it and switched it on. It was fucking _surreal."_

"Why the fuck would you cut your own arm off, Anakin?"

He shrugged. "I just felt like it."

Who the hell 'just feels like' cutting off half of their own goddamn fucking arm? You didn't say anything; there was nothing _to_ say to that.

"I was about your age when I did it," he went on. "Everyone freaked the fuck out, but they never figured out that I'd done it on purpose. I thought I was going to die."

"Did you _want_ to die?"

"Probably," he admitted, after some consideration.

You stared up at him; at his fucked-up hair, and his weird expression. You pictured him standing at his old workstation at the tombstone factory with that jarring, lopsided grin on his face, and his bloody arm sitting several feet away from the rest of his body; fingers still twitching. Had it stayed on the table, or fallen to the floor? You couldn't have known— you weren't there; you probably hadn't even been born yet. Then you remembered yesterday, and all of a sudden you could practically feel his breath on your neck again, along with his cock tearing you apart from the inside. You started to cry.

"What's the matter?" he asked quietly, kneeling down to put his own face level with yours. "I didn't mean to scare you." Since he was still holding onto his pistol with his left hand, he used the metallic fingers of his right to touch your face. He'd never touched your face before; not that you could remember. His digits felt cold and hard— inhuman.

"...You were _fun,"_ you finally sobbed, squeezing your eyes shut. You didn't want to see his face. "You were something to do; a place to be. _I liked you, too."_

"Hm?" He didn't seem to understand.

"Your question," you clarified shakily through your tears. "Your question from last night— you wanted to know what you meant to me." You moved your head; tried and failed to get away from the sensation of his fake fingers trailing across your skin. "Well, that's it— that's what you meant." You wanted to ask him why he'd had to go and ruin it, but you didn't. 

You could hear him smiling as he said, "Thank you— that wasn't so hard, was it?"

You didn't say anything else. You also still didn't look at him. It was difficult not to wonder what he was going to do next, although it scared you to so much as think about. Was he going to make you take your clothes off, and then assault you again with that monstrous dick of his? You were sure he was going to shoot you, but you didn't know when. Your parents would be home in a few hours; could you keep him talking long enough for them to find you? Would he shoot them too, though, as they came down the stairs? Maybe he'd just kill all of you— how many bullets were in that thing, anyway?

"Look at me," he said. He didn't shout, but he also didn't speak gently. With thoughts of your entire family laying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs running through your mind, it didn't take long for you to obey. You opened your eyes, and fixed them on his face. It was only inches away from yours at this point; you could see every little line and scar marring his skin. How many of those scars had been self-inflicted, anyway? Maybe all of them. You weren't going to ask. "That's good," he told you, once you'd made eye-contact with him. "Now, I want you to kiss me."

 _"What?"_ You couldn't remember ever having kissed him before. Why would you have kissed him?

"Kiss me," he repeated. "I haven't been kissed in years."

There seemed to be a whole bunch of reasons for that, you thought, but you didn't dare start to list them off. "...Okay," you agreed, even though you truly didn't want to do it.

He closed the remaining distance between your faces at your concession; pressed his lips to your mouth. It was weird to kiss him— not only hadn't you ever done it before, but he tasted like an ashtray that had been left in the sun. You did everything in your power to keep yourself from recoiling, which became infinitely more difficult when he went ahead and thrust his tongue past your lips. You shut your eyes, but not because the kiss was sweet or romantic: You shut them because you didn't want to see him.

When he pulled back and you forced your lids open again, he looked satisfied, or something like it. "That was nice," he said. "Don't you think that was nice?" He touched your face with his fake fingers again before adding, "It wouldn't be so bad to go back to doing what we were doing, would it? Can't we just forget about what happened? You know I'm sorry. _I'll even forget about the pictures."_

...Still? _Still_ with the fucking pictures? There was nothing to forget— why the fuck was he talking like he'd be doing you a favour to disregard them?

You shouldn't have yelled; couldn't have known how much you'd regret doing it, in fact... but, nevertheless, you did. He was infuriating in his entitlement; in his complete and utter lack of understanding. "Fuck, Anakin!" you shouted. _"The pictures never meant anything!_ What the hell is wrong with you?!"

The next thing you felt was the back-end of his gun whacking you in the side of the head. "Goddamnit!" he spat back at you.

"Shit!" You could have sworn you saw stars. "Anakin, what the f—"

"Shut up! _Just shut the fuck up._ Do you understand how fucking hard this is for me? _I'm fucking trying, here!"_

If this was Anakin 'trying', then it truly was no wonder that he lived in the garage.

"I'm sorry!" you choked out. Your head hurt; he'd hit you close to your temple, right beside your eye. You hadn't been able to tell if you'd been bleeding or not after he'd assaulted you with his dick, but you were quite positive that you were now. You could feel it trickling down your face; soon you'd be able to see it land on and stain your shirt as it dribbled from off your chin and jaw.

"You're not fucking sorry," he snarled as he stood back up on his feet. He seemed enraged, but somehow also defeated. You didn't know what to make of it; probably couldn't have comprehended it, even if your head hadn't been pounding. Anakin had never made much sense to you, really, but right now he was more confounding than ever. Why did you have to go and yell at him? You wished more than anything that you hadn't yelled at him.

"Anakin—"

"I told you to shut the fuck up! _Why won't you shut the fuck up?_ Fucking hell!" He put the gun very close to you, then; pressed its barrel right up against your forehead. You didn't know if he was testing your reaction, or whether he was actually going to shoot you. You closed your eyes again; however, he demanded immediately that you open them, and so they didn't stay shut for long. Your field of vision was consumed entirely by his knuckles, and a short length of black steel. "I came here thinking I could fix this," he lamented, "but it's starting to look like I can't fix a goddamn thing." He pulled the gun away from your face, and looked at you plaintively. "Did you know that I used to be good at fixing things?"

"Some things _can't_ be fixed," you told him unsteadily, too certain of your own impending death to be anything but honest. If this crazy old bastard was going to kill you no matter what you did, you sure didn't want to die with him thinking he'd been forgiven for his bullshit. You'd never forgive him for what he'd done; couldn't even bring yourself to pretend.

"You know what?" he asked, suddenly sounding disconcertingly calm. "I think you might be right." He was staring down at you, left hand hanging limply at his side as he continued to clutch his gun. His finger was on the trigger— it had been for a while, now. "I already knew I couldn't fix things with my wife," he said, "and now I can see that I'm not going to be able to fix them with you, either."

"I don't know what to fucking tell you, Anakin." You wanted to say something to the effect of, _If you're going to do this, just get it over with,_ but you kept that thought to yourself.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he said coolly. "Not a goddamn motherfucking thing."

His lip trembled the same way it had when you'd walked out on him after his having attacked you— back when you weren't sure whether he was going to cry, or flip the fuck out on you again. 

You started to say his name one more time, but before you had the chance, he raised his pistol. Expression utterly impassive, he tucked the barrel tightly behind his own chin at just the right angle, and blew his brains out all over the unadorned cement wall behind him.

Then, he crumpled to the floor in a bloody heap.

All you could do was stare. You probably _shouldn't_ have stared, but you couldn't help yourself: You'd never seen anything like it before. The blood that had splattered against the wall was mostly bright red, although you were sure you could detect minute chunks of his brain dispersed amongst it. The shot had been loud, but perhaps not as loud as you'd have expected it to be.

Worse than the noise or what was on the wall was what happened to be oozing out of him: He'd landed face-down, and a puddle of sticky, unfathomably dark crimson was steadily spreading across the floor, altogether too close to your feet. You pulled them up onto the chair along with the rest of you, so Anakin wouldn't start to soak your socks. The bullet had exited his head at the base of his skull; his brain-stem, you thought, must have been completely decimated. 

You were horrified at the sight of what he'd done, and simultaneously relieved that he hadn't opted to take you along with him to wherever it was he'd been trying to go. For whatever reason, your relief was shot through with guilt, because you couldn't help but think that if it hadn't been for you, he'd never have gone through with this.

...Then again, maybe without your 'company', as he'd called it upstairs, he'd have gone ahead and erased himself from existence a long time ago. Maybe, you thought, Anakin's suicide had been inevitable.

You still wished you hadn't had the gall to yell.

Since you remained chained to the boiler, and since your phone was sitting upstairs on the sofa, there wasn't really very much you could do. You tried to extricate your hand from the metal loop Anakin had forced you to attach to it; tried, even, to wrench the pipe connected to the boiler from where it had been installed. Both endeavours were useless, though... and so after deciding that you simply didn't have it in you to try to twist yourself around to rummage through his jacket to find the key to the handcuffs, you began to shout for help in the direction of the window. 

When your voice went hoarse before anybody heard you, you resigned yourself to hugging your knees with your free hand as the blood coating the floor started to cool and congeal. His already-matted hair was sticky with it now, and it had begun to soak into his clothes. You tried not to think about when he used to put his head between your legs to eat you out, because that was when you'd enjoyed tugging on it the most. His blood had crept close enough to the legs of the patio chair he'd made you sit in that you didn't dare put your feet back down on the floor.

If you hadn't felt trapped before, then you certainly felt that way now. You wanted to cry some more, but you couldn't manage to shed any tears, so you simply sat in silence. You guessed Anakin had gotten what he had wanted, because you were definitely shutting the fuck up now. 

You sat by yourself with only his dead body to keep you company until the sun started to set.

Eventually, of course, your parents would come home— first your mother, although your father was only minutes behind her. She freed you with a set of bolt cutters that had been leaning against the far wall, albeit not before screaming her own head off about just what the hell had happened while she'd been at work. It was while she was leading you up the stairs to call the police (you'd managed, thankfully, to keep your feet out of the mess by scrambling over the back of the chair) that you finally found yourself able to cry again.

Your tears would fall until your dad came home, too; he arrived nearly in tandem with the police, and a team of paramedics. When they arrived, you considered lying to them about your relationship with Anakin, until you realized that both of your phones would be absolutely filled with evidence of what you'd once done with one another. You felt ashamed, but also somehow vindicated— he was so crazy that you knew you couldn't reasonably be blamed for what he had done. You certainly didn't envy the officer who would have to go to his home, and tell his family about his having killed himself at your feet... not to mention the medics who would have to drag his body up the stairs and out of your house. You knew the aftermath of his suicide was going to affect more than just yourself.

At least, you thought, he had died knowing exactly what he'd 'meant' to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it; that's the story. I'm sorry if you didn't like it, but I'm so happy that I saw it through. I went from hating this one to really, honestly liking it a lot... and now I wouldn't change it for anything. Catharsis defined. 
> 
> (I didn't tag 'suicide' specifically, because there is somewhat of an element of suspense present in this story, and I wouldn't want to spoil it for anyone genuinely being entertained by that aspect of it.)
> 
> Thank you so, so much for your help with this.


End file.
